


wolf at the door

by ipomea



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28426677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipomea/pseuds/ipomea
Summary: Higgs makes a fair exchange with a prepper.
Kudos: 19





	wolf at the door

**Author's Note:**

> Higgs' past as a...utilitarian serial killer is something that fascinates me but I haven't written anything pre-canon before. So I decided to change that and get into it a little.

The BTs are starting to become more and more faded with every expedition Higgs and his cohorts set out on. It's getting difficult to direct everyone through the Timefall when it hits, and it's starting to hit harder with each passing day. Traces of fizzled out grey particles is all he can see now. He can't see the BTs for the grotesque creatures they are like he could a year ago. There's only one way out of this; he knows that. And without taking matters into his hands, it's over for the whole lot of them out west.

It's starting to frighten him how easy it's become to plan it all out through the years. He mulls over the names and ages in his records, picking out people to flag for the next time they ring in an order. He sticks to the elderly, mainly—the ones who are just around the corner from meeting their maker anyway. What's the harm in expediting the process if it saves more lives than it takes? They should be thanking him, really, for making sure their grandkids have food on the table the next day.

Slight alarm bells sound when he closes out the week, and no one on the list has put out orders for their diuretic medication, or spools of yarn, or whatever. He has to act soon before he ends up leading his team into the jaws of death; there have been too many close calls already. The men in his employ have started to give him disconcerting looks every time Timefall breaks. They won't say anything because he's the boss, of course, but he can feel their confidence waning.

Tuesday finally slides what he needs into his lap—an order for countless blister packets of pills and canned foods from a prepper out west. Higgs knows enough cursory information about him from years of deliveries. His age, his name—Jeffrey—and the things he occupies himself with in retirement; woodwork and copious pre-Stranding crime novels. Higgs has even received a few of his carvings himself as thanks for speedy delivery. There's one sitting on his desk right now. He's going to need to get rid of it as soon as this is over, he doesn't need the reminder.

The most important thing is not to hesitate and not to look back. It's only a short amount of time shaved off a man's life to save the lives of his community—a utilitarian sacrifice for the many.

The first few times were rough, back when he was a fresh-faced porter still green behind the ears. His fingers would tremble as he took his blade in hand because it was nothing like the first kill. When he killed his uncle, there were years of resentment behind it, born of abuse and cruelty. The old preppers didn't treat him the same way, not at all. At times they'd even send him on his way with leftover food out of pity. But, still, they _had_ to die. There was no way around it.

Higgs punches out the order in the afternoon so he can reach the shelter by early evening. If he goes any later, he runs the risk of catching the old man asleep. The containers are strapped to his back, and his knife is tucked away, weighing more heavily on his person than the cargo. He's lucky enough not to run into anyone on his way out, so he doesn't have to explain why he's taking on such a simple order that any old porter could handle.

The journey is quiet and solemn as Higgs takes the path less traveled to pass time. He walks along a slow lapping river, watching the lazy waves hum along the rocks. It could even be relaxing if his mind wasn't crawling with unease. Things are getting harder all the time, and being the only one with DOOMs out here is nothing short of a headache. Bridges won't send any relief or spare equipment from out east. The man at the head of Fragile Express shows no sign of letting up, either. The whole world rests uncomfortably on Higgs' shoulders, but there's no way he can give up now. Not while he's on the cusp of showing his dear old Daddy how wrong he was about people.

The rectangular structure strikes his vision at half-past six—right on time. It's one of the less appealing shelters, an older prototype before they all started being built to standards and codes. The metal plating outside is worn by decades of Timefall, clearly made with subpar, experimental materials that were first used not long after the Stranding. The old man must've been one of the lucky ones to get a personal shelter built that quickly. Higgs enters the mouth of the shelter and leans his lanky frame over to interact with the terminal.

"Got your order. Came all the way here to hand it over myself," Higgs says, calm and jovial over the intercom.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Monaghan!" Jeffrey answers with genuine warmth in his voice. Higgs has to remind himself not to fall for it.

Higgs lays the containers out on the mechanical shelf for delivery, and if it were any other day, he'd turn around for home now. But for now, there's still something to be done.

"Hey, hope I'm not imposing here," Higgs leans down to speak into the terminal. "But you got a place I could stay for a couple hours? Clouds look mighty heavy out here."

"Of course. You're always welcome." 

_Oh, the poor sucker._

"Thank you kindly," Higgs drawls in a saccharine tone.

Higgs makes his way for the door, grabbing his knife and unsheathing it in the process. These intervening moments are always the worst, where the adrenaline rushes through him, and his body goes taut with anticipation. In no less than five minutes, he will take another man's life. It's around his twentieth—maybe. They're all blurred together by now. He can't remember how many times he'd just gotten lucky and found someone who croaked on their own.

The door swings open, and the small, crumpled frame of an elderly man stands before him. He stares hard at Higgs' mask, searching for the faint glimmer of Higgs' eyes. Searching for humanity.

"Spare room's all yours," Jeffrey smiles, his thin lips spreading out over his wrinkled face. "Bit small, but it should do."

"Sorry 'bout this," Higgs mutters as he reaches out and pulls Jeffrey in close, fitting the back of his head over his shoulder.

He doesn't give Jeffrey time to speak. It's better that way. Better not to hear about how he doesn't have to do this or how his grandson's birthday is in two weeks. Higgs' palm covers Jeffrey's mouth, and the knife starts to sink into the side of his neck. One strong, swift movement, and his head drops slack against his collar. Higgs lets him down slowly, turning away so that he doesn't have to watch the final death throes.

Once he's sure the spasms have ceased, Higgs spreads the body bag out and starts shoving ragdoll limbs inside. The form before him isn't a person anymore. It's nothing but an animal that's been culled to save the herd. He gets on his knees to wipe away any visible traces of blood with a handkerchief, but he doesn't have to be too careful. No one's going to be looking, that's for sure—all he has to do is say the old man didn't open up, so he forced his way inside and found him on the verge of necrosis. He straps the corpse to his back and leaves the silver-plated shelter behind.

He stops just ahead of BT territory and lays the body bag along the grass like an offering. It'll take at least a day to pop on its own, and he doesn't have the time to wait that out. Other people know well enough to stay the fuck away from this place without him, so he doesn't have to worry about getting caught either. The clouds above him are just about ready to sing their siren song and draw the monsters right to him, so he tucks himself far enough away and waits.

Sure enough, the creatures are lured by the sweet smell of death. It's only been raining for a few minutes, but Higgs can see fuzzy grey shapes start to congregate above the body bag. They poke and prod at it, leaving sticky black handprints all over the white fabric. Within seconds the corpse is overtaken completely, leaving behind golden flecks of chiralium as it's swallowed whole.

This is the part Higgs can never quite get used to—feeling the same rush that coursed through him when he disposed of his uncle. It harkens back to times he'd rather forget but can't. The chiralium agitates his eyes, forcing out tears otherwise left uncried. He can feel strong hands wringing his neck as he breathes in the repugnant scent of death, and his scars ache in remembrance.

The BTs are visible again, now crystal clear in his glassy eyes. They're vile, abhorrent creatures, but not quite as ugly as himself.


End file.
